The Bleak MidWinter
by EastAnglia
Summary: State of Play 2003 . Della and Bell. Just a fluffy, silly little winter warmer.
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE: **The Bleak Mid-Winter

**FANDOM: **State of Play

**GENRE:** Romance

**PAIRING: **Bell/Della

**A/N:** Yet another in a series of Philip Glenister related fanfics! I can't seem to stop myself. Not sure where this came from. Can I be the only one who noticed the subtle chemistry between DCI Bell and Della Smith? Oh, well. I'm an unrepentant shipper. What can I say? This is nothing special. Just a fluffy little winter warmer. Only a few chapters.

xxXXxx

She hurried down the corridor, all while balancing her mobile between her chin and shoulder and rummaging through her purse for a pocket pack of tissues.

"I couldn't, Helen. Not tonight," she said wearily.

"It's almost Christmas," Helen Preger cajoled on the other end. Della could hear the boys whooping in the background, sounding as if the party had started already. Helen shushed them and went on. "We're all going out to celebrate our amazing good fortune this year, which is completely deserved, by the way. Please say you'll come."

"Sounds lovely, but my head's about to explode. I'm on my way back to the office now to collect my laptop, then I really need to just go home and go to bed. You lot have fun."

"Well, if you change your mind…"

"I won't. Thanks, though. See you tomorrow, unless I'm dead. Given the way I feel, it's a real possibility."

Della snapped her mobile shut and dropped it back into her bag while she fished in vain for her tissues through the packs of cough pastilles and old receipts. She finally stopped with a small sigh of frustration and stood with her bag balanced on one knee. She teetered as she gave the bag a shake, hoping the tissues would rise to the surface, but instead, a handful of coins erupted from the top and went skittering and bouncing across the tiled corridor. She cursed under her breath and flung her purse onto the floor in resignation.

Every year it was the same. October and November would roll past without so much as a sniffle, and she would have herself convinced that this year might be different. Then December would blow in, and with it, a cold that left her hacking and sneezing through the miserable holidays. The only thing she'd be drinking tonight was Lemsip.

She winced as the bare patch of skin between her boots and her skirt hit the cold floor and she retrieved her bouncing coins. It was then that she finally sneezed the sneeze she'd been fighting off and then dabbed her nose on the sleeve of her charity shop parka.

"Della!"

It was a familiar voice calling her name out in not-unpleasant surprise. She looked up from her all-fours position on the floor to see the shoes heading toward her, and then he dropped next to her and gathered up a handful of stray coins.

"DCI Bell…" she said and hurriedly stuffed an errant tampax back into her purse as he smiled over at her.

"Come to see me, then?"

"No, actually…" she said and struggled to her feet. "I was just on my way out."

"Oh."

There was an empty beat, and she thought she detected a slight air of disappointment. "I was just…picking up a police report. Follow-up story on Collins," she added in a rush.

"Yeah, I read the article," he said admiringly. "It was really good. Well done."

"Thanks." She smiled. They stood for a moment in silence. She could feel her nose beginning to dribble again. "Well, I should go. Good to see you again. Merry Christmas."

"Yeah, you too, Della."

There was an awkward shuffle as they tried to dodge around each other and then she finally passed him with a light wave.

"Della?" She looked over her shoulder. He was rubbing the back of his neck. "Would you fancy a cup of coffee?"

She blinked. "With you?"

He looked down with an embarrassed laugh. "I can sit at another table, if you'd prefer."

Horrified, she held up her hands in front of her. "Oh, I'm sorry! That's not what I meant! I just thought…you were offering me a cup from the employee break room or something. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I just thought we could talk about some cases you might be interested in. For the paper. Some other time, yeah?" He gave what was meant to look like an indifferent shrug and turned to go.

"I'd love a cup of coffee, actually."

xxXXxx

They sat tucked into a corner of a little place across from the station sipping at overpriced coffees. It was quiet and cozy, though, and she felt a bit weepy listening to the CD of Christmas carols that was playing in the background.

"Plans for the holidays?" he asked after a brief silence.

"I _was_ going to Spain for a few days, but my plans fell through." She laughed what she hoped was a casual laugh and watched as she chewed at his lip thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.

"I know it's tough. Right here at the holidays."

"How do you mean?"

"Well…I mean," he started in a hushed voice, "You just split with your boyfriend and all."

"Oh, God!" She clapped her hands over her eyes. "How did you know?"

"Your boss mentioned it," he said and added quickly, "Just in passing."

"_Christ! _My _boss_ was talking to you about my _personal life?_ Oh, my _God!"_

"I'm sorry! I should never have…God, I'm a pillock. I'm sorry."

She finally pulled her hands from her face to see him looking at her with large, apologetic eyes, leaning forward with elbows on the table. He was reaching out with his fingertips brushing against the cuff of her parka. She smiled weakly back at him. "It's okay. Never mind."

She sipped her coffee to cover the awkward silence that rose up.

"Are you all right, Della?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." She waved a dismissive hand. "He was a bit of a wanker."

"No…not about your boyfriend. I mean…" He ran a finger around the edge of his coffee cup before going on. "With everything…your flat getting broken into…what happened at the hospital." He said the last bit in soft, sympathetic tones.

She shivered and drew her coat around her. An image of the officer collapsed on the staircase and bleeding to death in front of her tore through her mind. Her hands shook as she picked up her cup and brought it to her lips. She sipped at it, trying to regain some composure. "I still have nightmares."

He mirrored her and picked up his cup, pausing before speaking. "I wish I could say you get used to things like that."

She warmed her hands against the cup and looked across at him. He was about forty, she reckoned. A good decade older than the men she usually dated. Not that this was a date, of course. This was just coffee between colleagues. But he was handsome in a rough, lived-in kind of way, it occurred to her, and he had lovely eyes that were startlingly blue.

She'd noticed them before. It was the day she'd gone to the station to view some Tube surveillance tapes from when Sonja Baker was murdered. He had sat beside her as she watched for signs of the man she'd seen at the hospital, but from the corner of her eye, she could see that Bell was not watching the tape, but watching _her _with concern. When she turned toward him just at the moment that the young woman had fallen onto the track, his eyes darted away quickly and he snapped off the monitor. "That's enough. You don't need to see that," he'd said softly.

"I should probably go," she said suddenly and set her cup on the table.

He immediately jumped up and pulled her chair back for her as she rose. "Yeah, sure. It's late. You've probably got…deadlines and things."

"We never did talk about those cases."

"Another time. It wasn't that important."

They walked back out into the sharp December air. She turned to him to say one last thing before parting when she felt her feet go out from under her. She cried out in alarm, and his hand flew up from his side, catching her and pulling her back to her feet before she landed hard on the pavement.

"Careful. There's some ice. You all right?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

They stood on the sidewalk for a moment. His face was lit up by the streetlamp, and she could see his brows were drawn together in concern. Yes, he was handsome. She hadn't really noticed it before. A very masculine sort of handsomeness, tinged with a policeman's world-weariness. No, that wasn't it. Not just world-weariness. It was a heaviness, a sadness, that had nothing to do with his job.

She blinked herself back into reality when she noticed that he was still holding her hand. She could feel the cold metal against her palm. It was a ring.

She pulled her hand from his grip as if she were touching something hot.

"Thanks for the coffee, Bill. Merry Christmas."

"You, as well, Della." He slipped his hands into his pockets and gave her a small smile as she turned and hurried off, and she felt fairly certain that he was still watching her as she turned the corner.

xxXXxx

Dan and Cal were still at their desks across from hers when she walked into the news room.

"What are you two still doing here?"

"Waiting for you! Thought we could twist your arm," Dan said.

"Yeah, you told Helen you were coming right back. Where have you been?"

"I stopped for coffee," she said as she logged off her laptop. She bit her lip and debated whether or not to go on. Why shouldn't she? It was just coffee. "With DCI Bell."

She could see Dan and Cal trade looks, and Dan tried to stifle a snicker. "And how is your copper?"

"He's not _my copper._"

"Then why are you blushing?" Cal teased.

"I'm not blushing. It's seven degrees outside and I've got a cold, you tossers."

"Ooooo!" both men said in mock outrage and then shoved each other like a pair of schoolboys.

"Anyway," she went on, snapping the lid of her laptop shut. "Not that it matters, but he's married."

"Oh. Tough break, Della," Dan said with a sort of awkward sincerity.

She shrugged without saying anything and headed quickly back to the elevator.

xxXXxx

_Her boyfriend. You brought up her boyfriend._

Bell's car wound its way through the streets toward home.

_Her boyfriend. What were you thinking? Twat._

He cursed aloud once and made the turn into his street. The front of the house was dark, and he cursed again realising he'd forgotten to turn the porch light on.

He pulled into the driveway and sat behind the wheel for a moment repeating bits of his conversation with Della in his mind. He'd never had much time for reporters before. They were always getting things wrong and leaking things that shouldn't be leaked. All which made his job twenty times more difficult than it already was.

But there was something about her. Maybe it was the way she'd shivered and sobbed in the rain outside the hospital the night his DI had been shot by a sniper's fire. Or the way she'd stormed into his office with her boss and laid into him for supposedly breaking into her flat. She'd tried to be so tough, all 5'3" of her, when all the while she was terrified. She'd sent Cameron Foster off, determined to handle this on her own, and he'd gone to sit next to her at the interview table. He'd given her some standard speech about offering her police protection and finding whoever had ransacked her flat, but all he'd wanted to do was hold her hand and tell her he could make it all right.

_You really are a hopeless bastard._

He slammed the car door shut behind him and cursed yet again as he banged his shin in the dark against the planter by the front door. The moon had gone behind a cloud, and he had to find the door key by feel with his thick working-man's fingers. He pushed the door open with a sigh and limped inside his empty house.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Because Lucida Bright asked so nicely. g And my flight to Disneyland was delayed. I'll try not to leave so much time between the next (and last) chapter.

xxXxx

It felt a bit early in the evening for everyone to be as drunk as they were. Usually it happened closer to midnight, but here it was just past nine, and they already were singing at the top of their lungs to Slade and Jona Lewie, and grown men were weeping and hugging each other like long lost brothers.

The news room was hot and thick with the smell of bodies and alcohol, and she had to edge her way through the crowds of reporters and politicians and others who had come along for the paper's famous Christmas bashes.

As she squeezed between two men she recognised as Tory backbenchers, one of them pinched her bum. She turned around to deliver some choice words, but another reveler grabbed her by the waist and spun her around, sending her reeling like a top towards the elevator. Between that and the various cold medications she was on, she felt woozy and unbalanced and had to stop to steady herself against the wall.

She wasn't sure why she'd come, anyway. Every year she would make her required appearance and then pretend she was having fun before sneaking off down the stairs when no one was looking. On top of everything, she had developed a sinus infection and was feeling even more miserable at this thing than usual.

"That's it," she muttered as she rummaged through her bag for her mobile. She'd just call the kebab place round the corner, sneak out, and eat her take-away in front of the telly in her pyjamas. She turned and headed towards the door to the stairway. The roof was one floor up. She couldn't talk over the noise, and some fresh air would settle her sudden queasiness.

She stopped for a moment as she stepped into the December air waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim. She was aware of movement from the corner of her vision, a dark, writhing shape, and she stood staring at it until she realised it was a couple snogging against the wall. The girl was a student on work experience, and he was a married writer from the financial page.

"Sorry," she muttered in embarrassment when they interrupted themselves to shoot her a hard look, and she hurried over to where streetlamps lit up the edge of the roof. A pinprick of red flame flared up and then died out ahead of her. Someone was there, smoking, and she squinted her eyes trying to make out the form. It turned toward her.

"Della…"

"Hello, Bill." She walked closer and stood opposite him with her arms folded across herself her against the cold. "What are you doing up here?"

He tossed his cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. "Looking for the last place in England you can legally smoke," he said with a half-smile.

In the glow of the neon and the moonlight, she could just make him out, and she watched him for a moment. The suit was nice, expensive probably on a policeman's salary, but the tie was rumpled. He'd loosened it so the knot was down below his collarbone, and he'd unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Not sure why I came. Not much for parties," he added and slid his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"Me, neither."

They stood that way for a beat.

"You look great," he fumbled. "Really…great. Festive."

She couldn't help smile at herself. She had stood in front of her wardrobe for half an hour before giving up and wearing the same black dress she'd worn the year before. "Thanks."

"Better than the last time I saw you."

She frowned. "Oh?"

"Yeah. That night we had coffee? Remember? You looked dreadful."

"Did I."

"Yeah. I thought your head might explode. Your eyes were red and your nose was dripping and…"

She stared back at him blankly.

"And I've just completely put my foot in it, haven't I?"

"A bit. Yeah."

He blew out a frustrated breath and laughed nervously. "God, I'm sorry. It's been awhile since I've had to chat up someone at a party. Not that I'm trying to chat you up, of course," he said, suddenly apologetic. "I'm hopeless, really. I wouldn't blame it if you pushed me off the roof."

It was endearing, this big, gruff DCI being as awkward as a teenage boy. She reached out her hand with a soft smile. "Forget it."

There was a moment between them, a spark, a subtle change in air pressure. She couldn't breathe.

Across the rooftop, the student and the sports writer stumbled drunkenly back into the building, and light spilled out across them. The moment was broken. She looked down to see she had been stroking his bare wrist with her thumb.

"I should go," she said drawing her hand away.

"Yeah, me too. Weather's meant to get dodgy," he said in that bland, cheerful way people talk at parties. Whatever had passed between them was gone. It didn't matter, anyway. What did it matter? He was married. Not her type at all.

"Yeah. Snow. I heard." She sounded like an idiot.

"Should get home."

"Yeah. You don't want your wife worrying about you."

He frowned. His mouth fell open. "I'm not…" He looked away, and she suddenly knew she'd said something terribly wrong. He bit his lip before speaking. "I'm not married, Della. My wife died. February last."

"Oh, God." Her hand flew up from her side, and she covered her mouth. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Bill."

"No, it's all right. Been almost a year. You didn't know."

"Oh, God," she repeated numbly. "I'm sorry."

Neither of them spoke. He looked out onto the street. "It's snowing."

They watched in silence as flakes of snow began to drift down through the shafts of streetlight and onto the pavement below.

She didn't know if it was lack of food or the combination of red wine on top of the Benylin and antibiotics, but she could feel herself begin to fade. Her knees sagged, and her head drifted onto his arm. He didn't move. "I should go," she said drowsily.

After a moment, he slipped his arm around her shoulder. "Come on. I'll take you home."

"No. Sssallright," she said in mild, slurry protest, but he was already moving her across the rooftop back into the noisy warmth and down onto the street.

END CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Not sure if anyone's reading this anymore...thanks to those who've kept up and kindly reviewed. Probably one more chapter of this, even if it's just me reading it! I quite like these two!

xxXXxx

"Della?"

Her eyelids fluttered for a moment and then opened. Bell was standing on the sidewalk leaning into the passenger side of the car as snowflakes gathered in his hair.

"Della?" he repeated in a low voice. "We're here. We're at your flat." His breath came out in frigid puffs. He waited for her to respond, but she looked up at him with unfocused eyes and made a small, muffled sound.

He leaned down into the car and hoisted her out of the car. "Here we go." She murmured something as he eased her out onto the pavement. "I've got you. We're just going to go up to your flat, yeah? You're all right."

He stood with his hands on the small of her back. "Mmmallright," she murmured, eyelids at half mast.

"You're all right? You can stand? I'm letting you go, all right? All right?" She nodded once. He unlaced his hands and took a step away from her. She stood upright for a moment and then swayed before her feet gave out from under her. She reached up and circled her arms around his neck. As he stumbled backwards, a clump of snow dislodged from the back of his coat and slid down his neck.

"Bugger," he whispered gently to himself and then curled his arm back around her waist with a sigh. "Here we go. I've got you."

She had managed to fish her keys out of her bag and pass them to him before they'd made the climb up the steps to her flat. She leaned against him while he tried to hold her up and test each key on the ring in her lock with his one free hand. The old woman from the flat next door came up the stairs with Somerfield's bags looped around her elbows, and she looked at them with a critical eye. He hoisted Della up to keep her from falling, and he smiled weakly at the old woman, looking for all the world like a dirty old man who'd slipped something into the nice young reporter's drink down the pub and was now about to have his wicked way with her.

"She's not well," Bell said in a fumbling explanation, and then added, "It's all right, I'm a police officer." The old woman harumphed and Bell groaned inwardly, knowing that the whole building would now hear that the girl in 3A was so drunk she had to be escorted home by the police.

Bell finally managed to find the right key, leaving the old woman to give them another disapproving look before they disappeared inside Della's flat. He eased her onto the sofa there and stood above her with hands on her shoulder.

"You said in the car you were on some medications. I think you're having some kind of reaction, yeah?" he said slowly and loudly, as if that would help. "What are you taking, Della? Can you tell me? Where do you keep them? Bathroom?"

There was nothing but silence, and he ruffled a frustrated hand through his hair. The bathroom seemed the most likely place. He crossed into the next room, where he paused in front of the sink and blew out an uneasy breath. He didn't relish the idea of rummaging through anyone's bathroom cupboard, least of all a young single woman, this young woman. It seemed an invasion, and he could feel himself redden as he pushed aside a box of tampax and some condoms in search of the pills. Finally his fingers skimmed across a half-empty medicine bottle of pills with a prescription date of a few days before. He turned the bottle on its side to read the warning labels: WARNING! Do not drive or operate heavy machinery while on this medication! WARNING! Do not drink alcoholic beverages while taking this medication! Extreme sleepiness may result!

"Thanks for the warning," he muttered and headed back into the next room with the pills. She was curled up on the sofa, sound asleep, when he re-entered. She had pulled her knees up to her chest and her hands were tucked under her chin. He had a brief moment of panic, remembering something about not going to sleep when you had over-medicated, or was that concussion? He crossed to the sofa and tried to shake her awake.

"Della? You need to stay awake. I don't think you're meant to sleep," he said and pulled her up to sitting. "Shall I call your GP? Della?"

"Mmmno. Juzzzneedsleep. Ssokay." She slumped against him, and he could hear the soft sounds of her even breathing.

He let her sit that way for a moment before he pried her away from him. He loosened his tie and tossed his coat and jacket on the back of a chair with a resigned sigh. He crossed into the kitchen where there was an open bag of Fair Trade coffee on the counter. He heated the water in the kettle and headed back into the next room with a cup. "Here. Drink this up. You'll feel better."

He molded her hands around the mug, and she brought it to her lips. She sipped at it once before making a noise of disgust.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't like thizz coffee."

"Oh. It was in the kitchen."

"Wuzzz Alistair's."

He blinked. Alistair. The ex-boyfriend. "Oh." He set her mug on the end table and quickly rose to his feet. "Well, if you're all right, I'll just go, then. I should...go."

He waited for her to respond, but the colour seemed to have drained from her cheeks, and she was looking at him in panic. "I'm gonna be sick," she managed to choke out before crossing to the bathroom in a wobbly sprint.

He stood in the center of the floor whistling and jangling the change in his pocket to cover the noise from the other room. He should go. This evening was already more than he bargained for. He hadn't expected to wind up here. In her flat. Rummaging through her things. Listening to the sounds of her being sick. He was forty years old. She was what, twenty-five? Twenty-eight? She was young and bright and pretty, and what chance did he have? It wouldn't work. He should go. But he was still there some time later when she came out of the bathroom. Her damp hair had been pulled away from her face, which had been scrubbed free of makeup. She had taken off her black party dress and was now wearing a pair of men's pyjamas, and the sleeves hung past her fingertips.

She was lovely. God help him, she was, and he felt as if all the air had been sucked from his chest. Every time he had seen her in the past, she was wearing one of those shapeless skirts or baggy jumpers not often seen outside a WI meeting. As if she had no idea how impossibly lovely she was. Then he had seen her tonight on the roof in her black dress, and he'd lost all power of speech for a moment. And now this, looking small and fragile in her too-big pyjamas. He had to root himself to the spot to resist the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

There had been no one since his wife had died, not really. In the first months, it was as if the part of him that was capable of feeling for another person had been cut away like dead flesh. Then a crippling sense of guilt had set in. He couldn't betray her memory. He had no right to love anyone again when she was gone.

And then there had been one weekend in September at a police conference in Birmingham when he had ended up in bed with a female DI from Sheffield. It was meaningless, and the next morning they'd had the good sense to feel slightly embarrassed about it. Embarrassed, yes. But not guilty. It had meant nothing. He had acted out of a raw need, a skin hunger.

But this was different. Della was different. For the first time since February, he felt that the small part of his being had not died after all, but was stirring again like the first shoots of spring, tender and fragile.

He swallowed hard before speaking. "Better?"

"Yeah." Her voice was weak and rough. She smiled at him sheepishly and shuffled back over to the sofa where she crumbled back down onto it. "God. I'm so embarrassed."

"No, no. Don't be." He sat down next to her. "It was just the medicine."

"And the wine," she groaned. "Why did I have two glasses of wine? It said not to." She covered her face with her hands for a moment, and they sat side-by-side on the sofa with their knees just touching. "You won't tell anyone at the paper, will you?"

"Course not."

She let a silence pass and then pulled her hands away. Her colour had returned, and there was a pink blush blooming on her cheeks. "Thanks for everything, Bill, but you don't have to stay. I'm fine."

"No, it's just..." he started, but she cut him off.

"Really, I feel terrible." She pressed her hand against her mouth in a yawn. Her eyelids were beginning to droop again. "I've dragged you halfway across London, and you didn't even want to be at the party."

She pulled her feet off the floor and tucked them under herself. Her head lolled against the back of the sofa. His arm was draped there, and after a moment, he let his fingers skim against her shoulder. She didn't move but let out a small hum. He waited before speaking. "That's not quite true."

"Mmm?"

"The only reason I went to that party is because...I was hoping I might run into you."

His heart drummed like a schoolboy's. He waited for a response, but none followed.

"Della?"

There was a long pause. "Mmmhmm?" she murmured drowsily.

"Come on." He pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arm around her. He helped her across the floor. "Bed. Best thing for you."

They crossed the floor together until they reached the edge of her bed, where he stood with both hands on either side of her waist. He turned her one way and then another, shuffling awkwardly on the floor, trying to work out the best way to drop her into bed while extricating her from his arms. It didn't quite work out as he had planned, and he somehow ended up on the bed with her on top of him. He tried to slip out from under her, but her legs were wrapped around his, and she had his left arm pinned underneath her against the bed.

"Della? My arm...can you...?" There was nothing. "Della?"

She made a small, sleepy noise of contentment and burrowed her head against his solid chest.

He sighed, kicked his shoes off, and turned the bedside lamp out with a soft click.

END CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Finally finished this, just as you all are gearing up for series 2 of A2A! Note new rating for a smattering of smut, the writing of which is akin to dental surgery for me. But you asked nicely for it, so I wanted to give it another shot. Ooof. Still painful, but I'm trying! I hope you enjoy it.

xxXXxx

When she awoke, it was 2:30. Everything was still, but the room was half-lit by the soft glow of the Christmas lights shining in from the building across the street. She lay there for a long awhile with her head nestled against his chest. He was snoring softly, and the heavy, steady sound of his breathing was reassuring.

It was a good word for Bill. _Steady_. She liked that. A year or so ago, weeks ago, even, it would have been the kiss of death for any man in Della's life, but suddenly it had become a very appealing quality.

He wasn't like the men she had been dated in the last few years. There was Brian, who worked in the City and liked to refer to himself in the third person. Before that there was Clive, who hadn't sold a painting in three years because no one understood his "art." She had loaned him three-hundred pounds to help with his rent, and later she found out he'd used it to take another girl to Portugal. Most recently there was Alistair, who owned an organic clothing shop in Covent Garden and made her feel awful about everything she ate, drank, and wore.

Then there was Bill. She probably shouldn't be attracted to him, but she was. She liked the smell of him, clean and unfussy. She loved the sound of his voice, the way it was soothing and gravelly at the same time. She'd been trying for days to try and think of a way to describe it. She was a writer, but the best she could come up with was that it was like honey drizzled over sandpaper. Yes, it had come as a surprise to her lately how attractive he suddenly was to her. Perhaps it was because he was decent and strong and unpretentious. She'd had enough of pretentious wankers she had to mother. The others were boys. DCI William Bell was a _man_.

It was lovely, lying here with him, but she was parched from the medicine and the earlier bout of sickness, and she felt her mouth had been stuffed with cotton wool. She needed water, but she was afraid to get out of bed, afraid to break the spell.

After some time passed, she rose with a sigh and headed to the kitchen.

xxXXxx

From deep inside sleep, he could feel her move away from him. There was the warmth of her body against his, but then came the shifting of the bedsprings and the feel of cool air where she had been.

He opened one bleary eye to see her tip-toeing back into her bedroom with a glass of water.

"What time is it?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

"Oh, sorry," she whispered. "Didn't mean to wake you. It's almost three." She set the glass on the bedside table and knelt on the edge of the bed.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Much better," she said with a small, rueful laugh. "You can't have been comfortable sleeping like that. You all right?"

"I'll let you know when I can feel my left arm."

She laughed again and drew herself fully onto the bed. She sat facing him with her knees pulled to her chest. They were both fully awake now. The only reason he'd ended up in bed with her in the first place was because she had inadvertently pinned him there. Now he had no legitimate reason to be here. There was an awkward moment while he wondered whether he should creep out of her room to spend the next couple of hours on the sofa or mumble some excuse and slink back home.

"Well," she said with a yawn. "Good night, Bill." With that, she slipped herself under the covers and rested her head against the pillow.

What now? Was he meant to stay? He lay there for a moment, not breathing. He was still contemplating it when she broke the silence and rolled over to face him. "I want you to know something," she said in the darkness, "I don't want you to think this was some sort of plan."

"What sort of plan am I not meant to think it is?"

"I'm a reporter," she said. "I've said some things, done some things I'm not necessarily proud of to get a story. I don't want you to think that I batted my eyelashes and lured you up here to get information out of you."

"Well, I should hope not. If you want information out of me, getting sick on my shoes probably isn't the best way to go about it," he said with gentle teasing.

She burrowed her head into the pillow. "Oh, God! I didn't, did I?"

"You didn't."

She groaned and let out an embarrassed laugh. Embarrassed, but not regretful.

Her smile faded. There was a spark, and they looked at each other across the darkness. After a moment, she spoke.

"Your clothes are going to get all rumpled." Her voice had dropped back down to a whisper. She reached out and brushed her fingers against the cuff of his shirt.

He could feel his heart begin to race in his chest. He was meant to stay here. Without his clothes. His mouth went dry. A hundred thoughts crashed through his head, and he tried to remember whether he was wearing saggy old y-fronts or the boxer briefs he'd accidentally bought at Tesco when he thought he was reaching for a pack of tightie whities.

Boxer briefs, he remembered with relief. He rose from the bed, and stood at first with his back to her. The trousers came off, and he draped them over the back of the chair. He turned back to her as he unbuttoned his shirt. She was watching him, propped up on one elbow. He got back into the bed, and she moved in next to him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He slid an arm around her waist and she laid her head against his chest. He wondered if she could hear his heart thudding wildly there.

No one spoke, and they held each other in the darkened room.

"You don't have any kids, do you?" she asked after a moment.

"No. We always thought there would be time, but then my wife got sick, and it was too late." He let the unasked question hang in there in the dark. "Cancer," he said.

"I'm sorry," she said simply. "What was her name?"

"Laura. She was a primary school teacher. Reception. Great with kids."

There was a silence. "Does it bother you? Talking about her like this?"

He thought for a moment. Grief was like a fingerprint. Everyone was different. In the weeks after her death, it had taken a monumental effort for him simply to get out of bed in the morning. He knew this was not something he might ever get over, not completely. But he felt as if for the past few months he had begun a slow climb out of a dark hole, and finally, he could see light and breathe cool air.

"No. Not anymore."

Her arm moved from her side and ran up his chest. "It's Christmas Eve tonight," she said.

"I suppose you've got big plans," he said.

"No. I think I've had enough of parties for awhile. What about you?"

"Me? Probably get take-away. Watch the Top of the Pops 2 Christmas special. Christmas isn't Christmas without little Aled Jones and Band Aid," he said wryly.

"Sounds perfect, actually," she murmured.

"Anyway, I'm working tomorrow." He stroked her shoulder with his free hand.

"Christmas _Day_?"

"Somebody has to. Might as well be us single blokes."

She looked up at him. The twinkling of the fairy lights across the street cast shadows across her face. She looked absurdly lovely with her bedhead and unadorned face and those oversized pyjamas.

He kissed her then, softly on the mouth. He waited for her to respond, to tell her that he had got the whole thing all wrong, but of course, he didn't. This was all new to him again, but there was very little ambiguous about ending up half-naked in bed with a beautiful girl. She kissed him back, and he felt as if a current of electricity had been shot through him.

Her hands slipped behind his neck, and she pulled him up to sitting. He broke the kiss and leaned back on his palms. There was a moment of panic. He was way off the beam. What was he doing? What could she want with a miserable old bastard like him?

She answered by taking his hands in hers. "You can touch me," she whispered into his mouth.

The time before with the anonymous female DI had been all frenzy and heat. It had meant nothing. This meant something, _she_ meant something, and his hands trembled as she lifted his hands and placed them against the curve of her breasts. He plucked one by one at the buttons and slid the pyjama top away from her shoulders. Her skin there was soft and smooth under his fingertips.

She encouraged him on with her kisses. Her hands were caught up in his hair, stroking his face. How long had it been since a woman had touched him like that?

She gently pushed him back down onto the bed. She straddled him, one knee on either side of his hips, and under the blanket, he could see her wriggling out of her pyjama bottoms. He lifted himself up off the bed as she hooked her index fingers inside the waistband of his briefs and moved them down his legs.

"Oh, God," he groaned. The words involuntarily escaped his lips as she took him in her hands.

She leaned down and kissed him. Her hair skimmed against his cheeks, and he reached up to brush it from her eyes. Her face was shining and alive, and her eyes were on his as she positioned herself above him and moved down onto him.

It all flooded back into him, this feeling of wanting and needing someone, of aching for them. He leaned his head back and bit his lip, trying to think of the weather, the table of elements, anything to keep from exploding then and there. It was useless, though, and all of his senses were filled with Della. The citrusy smell of her. The salty taste of her ivory skin on his lips. The gentle, rhythmic rocking of her hips against his.

He moved her onto her back then. He pulled away from her, not wanting it to end yet. His fingers and his mouth travelled down her neck to her belly and down to her soft inner thigh. She let out a throaty, contented moan, and her hands stroked his hair. Such delicate hands, with nails she had bit down to the quick. He smiled and drew back up to meet her mouth.

He moved inside of her again. Her legs wrapped around him, her fingers curled into his back, and he glided above her, building toward the moment of release. She was whispering to him, saying his name. Her breathing quickened, and he could feel her tremble underneath him. She arched her back into him, pulled him in tighter, and let out a throaty cry as he spilled into her.

She pulled him down into her arms and held him there as he covered her shoulders with small kisses until their heartbeats eased.

He fell back onto the pillow, and he curled himself around her. They lay breathlessly in the tangled sheets, cool air against damp skin. Her small body fit perfectly inside the solid curve of his body. She took his hand and laced her fingers through his, and the light hit his wedding ring for a moment. It was still there on his left hand, where it had been for the last four years, even now that she was gone. For the first time, it no longer felt like a betrayal of her memory to think about taking it off.

"Bill? Are you awake?"

"Hmmm?" he hummed, half-asleep.

"I thought. Maybe. You could come back here tonight. For Christmas Eve."

She hardly had to ask him. "Sounds perfect, actually."

"Good," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

They lay there in contented drowsiness and drifted peacefully back towards sleep.

THE END


End file.
